Hunger Heart by Karen Fastrup
Marina Allemano
Visibility x 3
Hunger Heart by Danish writer Karen Fastrup is an autofiction, a candid autobiographical novel that is non-traditional in both form and content. The plot centres around the I-narrator’s mental breakdown in connection with a love relationship gone haywire. Moreover, the crisis becomes a portal that brings the reader into the dark and sometimes terrifying space where the symptoms of borderline personality disorder reign. There are external signs of mental distress – the pacing, the sleeplessness, the loss of appetite – but many symptoms and emotions, anxiety in particular, are internal and hidden. Making the invisible visible is Karen Fastrup’s great feat and making the English translation of the revealed world credible becomes the translator’s job.
Coincidentally, the writer herself is also a translator which turned the translation process of Hunger Heart into a rare collaboration between two translators. After the first draft was done, the editing, the correcting, the searching for nuances and precise diction were executed through WORD’s Review tab with the writer-translator and I creating a metatranslation in the Review panel. Towards the end of the project, there were close to 400 comments and suggestions to decide on, including links to images or websites that would clarify architectural details of a Danish building, or show the nuclear-red colour of a teenager’s hair. The normally invisible editorial and collaborative marginalia turned into a highly visible multi-coloured metatranslation.
One of the reasons the marginalia grew in size is Karen Fastrup’s talent for describing situations, people’s appearance and bodily movements with razor-sharp precision. But it is especially the corporeal imagery – skin, membranes, body shells, teeth growing horizontally – associated with anxiety and identity issues that demands attention. Says the author: “When I try to comprehend and formulate something about my mental state, the starting point will always be my body and, in a broader sense something physical” (see Jeppe Højberg Sørensen, “Hudens psykologi”, Atlas, 15 Dec 2018, my translation).
With the author’s explanations in mind, I, the translator, learned to avoid normalizing the often odd word choices and the sometimes awkward syntax and follow the source text more closely. In this sense, the translation became more visible as a translation. Walter Benjamin in his famous essay The Task of the Translator writes “it is not the highest praise of a translation … to say that it reads as if it had originally been written in that language.” He continues with a quote from writer-philosopher Rudolf Pannwitz: “The basic error of the translator is that he preserves the state in which his own language happens to be instead of allowing his language to be powerfully affected by the foreign tongue” (Illuminations, translated by Harry Zohn). To this I may add that in the case of Hunger Heart, the foreign text has two tongues, in that the imagery relating to the emotional turmoil has its own tongue which has been my task and privilege to engage with and make visible.
Hunger Heart was published by Book*hug Press, November 2022.
Five Excerpts from Karen Fastrup’s novel Hungerhjerte
(pp. 9-10)
Akutmodtagelsen, Psykiatrisk Center Ballerup, 18. oktober 2015
Jeg kan ikke trække vejret, siger jeg til psykiateren.
Jeg er en hvinende kugle i hovedhøjde, som ikke ser, om der er ben under stolene. Man har anbragt mig ved et bord. Ingen vinduer, så langt er jeg med. Næsten muligt at røre begge vægge på én gang, hvis man skulle finde på at strække armene ud, hvilket jeg ikke kunne drømme om. Arme og ben inden for rækkevidde. Der er af og til flaksende hænder i mit synsfelt. Det er formentlig mine. Jeg bør få fat i dem, men jeg har ikke tid nu. Jeg taler.
Jeg kan ikke få lov at være mig selv, siger jeg til psykiateren, i det forhold.
Skal han ikke sige noget?
Jeg ser ud gennem mine opspilede øjne, og ordene tumler ud af min mund.
Jeg vil have øjne at se ind i, forstår du det?
Han nikker langsomt.
Jeg skal være stille og afdæmpet, siger jeg højt, men jeg er ikke stille og afdæmpet.
Psykiaterens brune øjne ser på mig bag briller, prøv, om du kan forføre ham!
Endelig, endelig er der én, der forstår mig. Han siger det ikke, men jeg kan se det på ham. Vi er two of a kind, psykiateren og jeg. Når jeg er i rækkehuset, kan jeg ikke trække vejret, det fortæller den hvinende kugle ham, for dér er der ikke nogen, som forstår, hvem den er.
Psykiateren er en lille smule utydelig i sine signaler. Men selvfølgelig kan han ikke sidde og sige direkte til mig, at jeg er fejlplaceret i det forhold og i det rækkehus. Sådan fungerer det ikke. Men jeg ved, han er på min side, han ville have det på samme måde. Det er sindssygt, hvad jeg har udsat mig selv for.
Jeg har glemt at mærke efter, hvem jeg selv er, siger jeg.
Jeg er en dinglende rebstige ned i kloakken. Trin forbundet af tråde. Det har nok været den stige, jeg begyndte at trække op i gadeplan og smide fra mig på spisebordet foran Jan og hans familie til middagen for tre timer siden, jeg er dén og dén, og værsgo, her er hele flokken, har jeg nok sagt, mens jeg smækkede de klaprende trin i bordet og endte her. Hvordan skal jeg kunne trække vejret?
Sosu-assistenten, som Jan ringede til hjemmefra, hende, der sagde, at vi ikke skulle komme, er med til samtalen. Jeg kan ikke lide hende. Ikke kun fordi hun mente, vi ikke var velkomne her. Men fordi hun ikke kan se, hvem jeg er. Jeg er et meget civiliseret menneske, også selvom jeg er her. Det skal man ikke tage fejl af. Og det er det, jeg tror, hun gør.
(p. 54)
Indre by og Lyngby, August 2015
[…] Ida ser på mig.
Og så har jeg travlt med oversættelserne, jeg kommer hele tiden bagud, siger jeg. Men jeg fortæller hende ikke, at jeg har en fornemmelse af, at der er blevet spændt en hinde ud helt oppe under det øverste af mit kranium, og at jeg kravler hektisk rundt oven på den uden mulighed for at rejse mig op, der er ikke højt nok, og når jeg alligevel prøver at rejse mig, så skraber ryggen mod indersiden af hovedskallen.
Jeg fortæller hende heller ikke, at mens jeg styrter desperat rundt i haven og klipper vedbend væk fra vinduesruderne og fjerner nedfaldne grene i forsøget på at skabe plads omkring mig, så kværner stemmerne rundt deroppe i det lille rum øverst i hovedskallen i en evindelig diskussion med hinanden om, hvorvidt jeg er en frygtelig kvinde, der i det store rum under hinden huser et vilddyr, som jeg med djævelens vold og magt skal holde nede, eller om dyret dernede rent faktisk har noget fornuftigt at sige til mig. Om min længsel efter at se i øjne og have lange samtaler, mit savn efter plads, min trang til ikke at skulle huske mig selv på, at jeg ikke må virke forstyrrende med min tilstedeværelse, når Jan kommer fra arbejde, min længsel efter, at der bliver lukket helt op, så der kommer lys ind, om den længsel er reel. Om det er rimeligt eller urimeligt at lytte til den.
Jeg bliver enig med mig selv om, at det er urimeligt. Jeg opfører mig jo neurotisk, når jeg farer omkring på den måde, jeg ved det, og jeg kan se det i Jans øjne. Jeg bliver nødt til at lære at holde vilddyret under den udspændte hinde i ave. Jeg ved godt, hvordan ordentlige mennesker opfører sig. De er afdæmpede, rummelige og forstående.
(pp. 57-58)
Sortedam Dossering, Nørrebro, 24. oktober 2015
[…]
Jeg er for længst holdt op med at spise. Mikkel ser på mig en gang imellem og siger:
Spis det her, Karen. Nu!
Han rækker et eller andet frem mod mig.
Jeg tager det, ved ikke, hvad det er. Det svulmer op i min mund, vender sig som en stor bolle uglegylp bag mine tænder, som stadig vokser fremad og ud af min mund. Når jeg stikker tungen ind bag mine fortænder, kan jeg mærke, at de er blevet horisontale. Jeg prøver at synke klumpen forrest i min mund. Jeg ved ikke, hvordan jeg skal få den længere bagud. Det er meningen, at den skal flytte sig væk fra mine horisontale tænder, bevæge sig hen over tungen og ramme det hul, der fører ned i min krop. Det er jeg helt på det rene med. Jeg stikker en finger ind og prøver at skubbe den lidt i den rigtige retning.
(pp. 82-83)
Psykoterapeutisk Ambulatorium, Ballerup, November 2015
Jeg går i kognitiv terapi hos Eskild to gange om ugen. Han er min kontaktperson, og jeg må gerne ringe direkte til ham på hans mobil.
Eskild vil have mig til at deltage i gruppeterapi på ambulatoriet. Han siger, at jeg nok vil opleve at være mere velfungerende og behandlingsparat end de andre. Det er derfor, jeg er blevet bekymret.
Men jeg gør, som de siger, og går derhen en torsdag formiddag. Vi sidder om et stort, ovalt konferencebord. Vi er femten mennesker, hvoraf to af os er nye. Mig og en ung mand med fuldskæg og en stor, overvægtig krop. Han har en fin lyseblå skjorte på, som er knappet op i halsen. Han står uden for døren, som om han skal tage tilløb til at komme ind.
Endelig kommer han over dørtrinnet. I hånden har han et plasticbæger med vand. Hånden ryster voldsomt, og vandet skvulper ud af bægeret for hvert skridt. Langsomt, skridt for skridt, bevæger han sig ind i rummet. Han har udset sig en plads ved siden af terapeuterne på den fjerne side af bordet, over for mig, det tager lang tid at komme derover. Han skal over store forhindringer for at nå derhen, med sin rystende hånd og vandet, der skvulper. Jeg ved ikke, om gulvet hælder og truer med at kaste ham af, eller om der er stemmer i hans hoved, som er i færd med at håne ham i stumper og stykker.
Til sidst når han frem. Han ser lettet ud. Men det holder ikke længe. For nu beder terapeuterne os lave en navnerunde, fordi vi er to nye, og han er den første i rækken. Han havde nok troet, at pladsen ved siden af terapeuterne var den tryggeste.
Han åbner munden, bevæger læberne i hak, men der kommer ingenting ud af ham. Sveden løber ned over hans pande og ansigt. Han ryster mere og mere, det er hele kroppen nu. Der bliver uro omkring bordet. Terapeuterne prøver at få ham op at stå, de vil have ham ud af rummet. Hans hænder har krampet sig fast i en akavet spastisk stilling. Uendelig langsomt får de ham gelejdet rystende ud af lokalet, og idet de er nået ud gennem døren, bøjer hans fødder ind under ham, så han står på vristene.
Der kan han jo ikke balancere, så det er kvinderne, der bærer den store hængende krop med de spasmedrejede fødder. Døren bliver lukket.
Kvinden ved siden af mig med full sleeve-tatovering banker hektisk i bordet med den ene hånd.
Fucking pis! siger hun. Hvad fanden skal han her?
For fuck’s sake, siger en kvinde over for hende. Han har sgu da lige så meget ret til at være her som dig.
Jeg siger ikke noget. Sidder helt stille og ser ned i bordet.
Benet kører op og ned på manden ved siden af mig.
Lidt efter kommer terapeuterne tilbage. Det var angst, siger de.
Jeg vidste ikke, angst kunne give sådan nogle fødder.
(pp. 274-275)
Min fars begravelse, Sønder Stenderup, Maj 2005
Har jeg fortalt, at du har lært mig at se?
At du har lært mig at se trådene fra dit næseblod i skålen, når de diffunderer ud som rodnet og lader hjertekamre vokse frem i tykmælken? At du har lært mig at se vinden kratte vandspejl op i ruhårede, spjættende rygge?
At du har bedt mig fortælle, hvad jeg ser? Bedt mig beskrive alle ansigter, jeg så. Alle fødder, alle hænder, alle træer, fugle, dyr, floderne, fjeldene, vejene, der ruller sig ud som tunger gennem landskaber, mændene, huden, bøgerne i dine reoler, de rørlagte floder af blod under mandshud.
Som om du var blind.
Har jeg fortalt, at du har lært mig at skelne lugte fra hinanden? Når kaprifolierne slap deres dufttråde på sommeraftener. At vi skulle videre, vi havde travlt, der var så meget, vi skulle nå at lugte til. Vi skulle lade hænderne synke ind i veddet for enderne af afskårne tømmerstokke og lægge næserne helt ind til, så harpiksen kunne glide ind i os. Vi skulle nå at lugte til forrådnelsen i svenske oktoberskove, til tangen ved Nissum Bredning, til vandafsondringerne i strandengenes forstørrede porer.
Jeg skal lugte til mandssved i armhuler. Til sæden, der løber ned ad mine lår dagen efter.
Har jeg fortalt, at du har lært mig, hvordan jeg trækker lyde ind i mine ører? Hvordan jeg kan skelne den ene lyd fra den anden og give den navn? Lærken. At din hånd har vist mig, hvordan den står langt deroppe over vores hoveder og vibrerer, mens den siger den lyd, der kommer ud mellem dine læber. At der er lyd i bølgerygge og træer, i sneen og flyglet, i salmerne.
At der er lyde i ord: i kød, intonationer og rug, i savklinger, papir og storkapital.
At du har lært mig, hvordan man spænder hud ud, så den bliver tynd som trækpapir, og alting kan suges ind i den eller lækkes fra den? At du har lært mig at se sprækkerne i den strukne hudgaze, dér, hvor det, der er indenunder, skinner igennem? Der, hvor ikkeansigtet er. Der, hvor fødder vipper om og går på vriste. Der, hvor angst siver ud?
Har jeg fortalt, at det ikke er dig, der har lært mig at smage og røre?
Har jeg fortalt, at jeg i går så det dybe, firkantede hul, du skal ligge i? Og volden af jord ved siden af, som skal dække dig?
Har jeg fortalt, at da vi i dag firede din kiste derned, glemte jeg, hvad du råbte op til mig? Når jeg hang øverst i rebet under blodbøgen og skulle ned: at det svier, hvis man lader reb glide gennem hænder.
Har jeg fortalt, at du har givet mig sprog?
Five Excerpts from the English translation of Karen Fastrup’s novel Hunger Heart:
(pp. 11-12)
Emergency Room, Admission, Ballerup Psychiatric Centre, Greater Copenhagen Area, 18 October 2015
I can’t breathe, I say to the psychiatrist.
I’m a squealing bullet at eye level who doesn’t look to see if there are legs under the chairs. They have seated me in front of a table. No windows, so far I get it. Almost possible to touch both walls at the same time should you get the idea of opening your arms wide, which I wouldn’t dream of doing. Arms and legs within reach. Once in a while, hands flap around in my field of vision. Presumably they are mine. I ought to get hold of them, but I don’t have time now. I’m talking.
I’m not allowed to be myself, I say to the psychiatrist, in that relationship.
Shouldn’t he say something?
I look out through my wide-open eyes, and the words come tumbling out of my mouth.
I want a pair of eyes to look into, do you understand?
He nods, slowly.
I’m supposed to be calm and discreet, I say in a loud voice, but I’m not calm and discreet.
The psychiatrist’s brown eyes look at me from behind glasses, try to see if you can seduce him!
Finally, finally there’s someone who understands me. He hasn’t said a word, but I can see it on his face. We are two of a kind, the psychiatrist and I. When I’m in the row house, I can’t breathe, the squealing bullet tells him, because in that place no one can understand who the bullet is.
The psychiatrist’s signals are a bit vague. But of course he can’t just tell me point-blank that I’m in the wrong place in that relationship and in that row house. That’s not how it works. But I know he’s on my side, he would have felt the same way. It’s crazy what I have subjected myself to.
I have forgotten to pay attention to who I am, I say.
I’m a rope ladder dangling down the sewer. Rungs connected by threads. It’s probably this ladder I began to pull up to street level and flung down on the dining table in front of Jan and his family at dinner three hours ago, I’m this one and that, and here is the whole pack of us, there you go, most likely that’s what I said when I slammed the clattering rungs down on the table and ended up here. How can I possibly breathe?
The nursing assistant who Jan phoned from home, the one who said we shouldn’t come here, is present during the interview. I don’t like her. Not only because she didn’t think we were welcome here. But because she can’t see who I am. I’m a very civilized person even if I’m here. One shouldn’t misjudge me. And that’s what I think she’s doing.
(p. 54-55)
Inner City of Copenhagen, and Lyngby in Greater Copenhagen Area, August 2015
[…] Ida looks at me.
And I’m busy with the translations, I’m always behind, I say.
But I don’t tell her that I have this sensation of a membrane stretched across the top part of my skull and that I’m crawling on it, frantically, not able to stand up, there isn’t enough room, and when I attempt to do it anyway, I scrape my back against the inside of my skull.
Neither do I tell her that while I run desperately around the garden clearing away the ivy from the windows and removing fallen branches in an attempt to create some space around myself, the voices in the tiny space at the top of my skull natter away in a never-ending discussion about whether I’m a bad woman who, in the larger area below the membrane, houses a wild beast that I’m hell-bent on suppressing, or whether the beast down there, in actual fact, has something sensible to tell me. About my longing to look into a pair of eyes and having long conversations, my need for space, wishing I didn’t have to remind myself not to be disruptive with my presence when Jan comes home from work, about my longing for complete openness that lets the light in, about whether this longing is valid. Whether it’s reasonable or unreasonable to listen to it.
I make up my mind that it’s unreasonable. Admittedly I behave like a neurotic when running around like that, I know it, and I can see it in Jan’s eyes. I’ll have to learn to rein in the wild beast that lives below the distended membrane. I know very well how respectable people behave. They are self-controlled, tolerant, and understanding.
(pp. 58-59)
Sortedam Dossering, Nørrebro Neighbourhood in Copenhagen, 24 October 2015
[…] I stopped eating a long time ago. Sometimes Mikkel looks at me and says:
Eat this, Karen. Now!
He hands me something or other.
I take it, not knowing what it is. It swells up in my mouth, turns over like a big ball of regurgitated owl pellet behind my teeth that still grow forward and out of my mouth. When I touch the back of my front teeth with my tongue, I can feel that they are horizontal. I try swallowing the ball in the front of my mouth. I don’t know how to move it further back. It’s supposed to move away from my horizontal teeth, pass across my tongue, and hit the hole that leads into my body. I have no problem understanding that. I poke my finger inside and try nudging the ball in the right direction.
(pp. 80-81)
Psychotherapy Outpatient Clinic, Ballerup, Greater Copenhagen Area, November 2015
I attend cognitive behavioural therapy sessions with Eskild twice a week. He’s my care worker, and I’m allowed to call him directly on his mobile.
Eskild wants me to participate in group therapy at the outpatient clinic. He says I’ll probably find that I’m better adjusted and treatment-ready than the others. That’s why I’m worried.
But I do as they say and go there on a Thursday morning. We sit around a large oval conference table. We’re fifteen people of which two are new. Me and a young man with a beard and a large overweight body. He’s wearing a nice light-blue shirt buttoned up to the top. He’s standing outside the door as if he needs to assess the situation before entering.
At last he crosses the threshold. He holds a plastic cup of water in his hand. His hand is shaking violently, and the water spills over with each step he takes. Slowly, step by step, he enters the room. He has picked out a seat for himself next to the therapists on the far side of the table, opposite me, getting there is taking a long time. He has to negotiate large obstacles to reach his destination, what with his trembling hand and the water that keeps slopping over. I don’t know if the floor slopes and threatens to throw him off, or if there are mocking voices in his head tearing him to pieces.
Finally he gets there. He looks relieved. But it doesn’t last long. Because now the therapists ask us to introduce ourselves, seeing that the two of us are new, and he’s being asked to go first. Most likely he had thought that the seat beside the therapists would be the safest.
He opens his mouth, his lips trembling, but nothing comes out. Sweat runs down his brow and face. He shakes more and more, now his entire body is shaking. Tension can be felt around the table. The therapists try getting him to stand up, they want him out of the room. His hands are cramped in an awkward contorted position. Slowly, slowly do they manage to usher him out of there, still shaking, and just when they are out the door his ankles buckle under him and he lands with his insteps dragging on the floor.
Clearly he cannot keep his balance in that position, so it’s up to the women to support his large, limp body and twisted feet. The door closes.
The woman with a full-sleeve tattoo sitting beside me pounds the table frantically with her hand.
Fuck! she says. What the hell is he doing here?
For fuck’s sake, a woman across from her says. Surely he has as much right to be here as you do.
I don’t say anything. Just sit motionless, keeping my head down.
The leg belonging to the man next to me is bouncing up and down.
Soon the therapists return.
It was an anxiety attack, they say.
I had no idea anxiety could result in feet like that.
(pp. 264-265)
My Father’s Funeral, Sønder Stenderup, Jutland, May 2005
Have I told you that you taught me how to see?
That you taught me to see the droplets from your nosebleed forming threads in your bowl of soured milk pudding like a spread of roots, slowly coalescing into shapes mimicking heart chambers? That you taught me to see the wind clawing at the glassy water, transforming foamy crests into furry, twitching tails?
That you have asked me to tell you what I see? Asked me to describe all the faces I saw. All the feet, hands, trees, birds, animals, all the rivers, mountains, roads that roll out like tongues throughout landscapes, the men, the skin, the books in your bookcases, the piped rivers of blood under men’s skin.
As if you were blind.
Have I told you that you taught me to differentiate between various smells? When the honeysuckle emitted its threads of fragrance on summer nights. We had to walk on, we were in a hurry, there were so many smells and scents to explore. We would grasp cut-up logs with our hands and press our nose against the wood to soak up the smell of resin. We had to make time in October to smell the autumn rot in Swedish forests, sniff the seaweed by Nissum Bay and the stagnant water in the beach meadows’ enlarged pores.
I shall smell male armpit sweat. Semen that runs down my thighs the morning after.
Have I told you that you taught me how to let sounds flow into my ears? How distinguish different sounds and name them? The lark. That you showed me with your hand how he sits high up above our heads, trembling and making the very sound that comes out of your mouth. That there are sounds in cresting waves and in trees, in snow and the grand piano, in the hymns.
That there are sounds in words: flesh, intonation and rye, sawtooth, paper and free-market capitalism.
That you taught me how to stretch my anxiety skin so it’s no thicker than blotting paper that can absorp all sorts of things or let them bleed out? That you have taught me to see the cracks in the distended skin gauze, right there where whatever is underneath shines through? Right there where the non-face is. Right there where feet flip over and drag on their insteps. Right there where anxiety oozes out?
Have I told you that you’re not the one who taught me how to taste and touch?
Have I told you that yesterday I saw the deep rectangular hole in which you’re going to lie? And the dirt beside it that will cover you?
Have I told you that when we lowered your coffin today, I forgot what you shouted at me from below? When I was dangling at the top of the rope suspended from the copper beech and had to come down. It will burn if you let the rope slide through your hands, you shouted.
Have I told you that you gave me language?